Page 96 of Love Again

I don’t even hear when he turns it off because, now, he’s pushed me up onto the pillows so my head drops down the other side, and I’m disoriented. He holds my wrists in a vice, spreading my arms wide so my breasts stand up. I struggle to find him, and then I feel him slowly, meticulously—as if he has all the time in the world—slide into me.

I’m so tight but so wet, and the incremental leveraging into my vagina is mind-blowing. He slowly stretches me wide and fills me up. I struggle harder, trying to make him hurry, to raise my hips, to climb him.

But he won’t let me. He lifts his hips enough to make sure his entry stays slow. Finally, when he sinks as far as he can, reaching his base, our pelvises are locked together. He stays deep within me. I feel him pulsing in my body.

That’s when I realize how hard I’m breathing. I can barely lift my head.

“I love you, Devon,” he says. He lifts his hips slightly, pulling out, tugging at my sex, and then he slides back in.

My body can’t contain any of this anymore.

Neither can his.

΅

Afterward, we lie in the litter of pillows for a very long time. Later, we both wake, chilled except where our skin touches.

“Don’t go yet,” I say, wrapping my arms around his back. I knead the spaces between his vertebrae and slide my hands down his sides and then bring them up to push the hair back from his forehead.

Two of the wicks are burned out. The third now sputters and dies.

I can’t believe I’m lying in the darkness with the man I love inside me. For real. Not in a dream.

Inside me, always, as it should be. His voice reaches me through the dark.

“Marry me again, Devon Russo.”

Epilogue

Luke

The town turned out to help Finn rebuild the east side of The Inn of Echo Bay. Luckily, most of the damage was exterior. He postponed reopening until May first, and everyone is thrilled. I think having nearly all the Russos under one roof for an extended period has made them all giddy.

Finn, too, seemed pleased. Claire said when he first arrived in Echo Bay that he put the townsfolk off. First, he was from Boston. Second, he was aloof. Third, they all thought he was a developer with deep pockets.

The pockets are definitely deep, but all he wanted to develop was a memorial garden for families who had lost children.

Over the span of a few weeks, help arrived in the guise of fishermen showing up after work or on stormy days to help out. Molly, the older woman who raises miniature horses, arrived from down the road, swinging her own hammer. Even Emily and Ralph Burke, the elderly couple across the street from The Inn, showed up to chat with everyone working.

Lindy, whose family owns Weaver’s, left the deli open to anyone volunteering time, tools, or materials for either site. I overheard Finn one morning, slipping her a massive check. He actually had to argue with her.

I’ve grown to know the men in the Russos’ lives really well. Working alongside them has been good for me, and not only with getting stronger but also in letting me be part of a team. I was cleared to work a month after my release, which seemed way too long at the beginning. But I was glad to be with Devon and that we had that time together. Keller gave her time off, too, and with the Rockland PD’s check for consulting, she still came out ahead.

I’ve found it’s in the evenings, when the Russos come together, that everyone is at their best. Claire has basically already moved in with Finn anyway. Bryce and Chloe took over a room at The Inn, even though they live half a mile away on Rock Island. Laurel, Mateus, and Cory stayed in Devon’s old room with the adjoining door so Cory could have his own room.

The cottage sustained major damage, and Andy is supervising its reconstruction. He said he’s happy to drop the aquaponic pond for a while—repairing the cottage is a far more interesting architectural project.

Because we’re at The Inn all time, I’ve started to notice a pattern. Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, when I would normally be at the station, Chloe mysteriously leaves with a box of food and kitchen supplies.

I have to believe this is the Chloe-Keller school of cooking. Tuesday, I decide to pop in, unannounced.

Keller looks completely shocked when I walk in through the front door. He must have been so absorbed at the stove that he didn’t see me coming.

He and Chloe are standing over the stove, stirring something. The place smells of hot oil. At least a half dozen tiny, broken, speckled eggshells sit innocently in a bowl next to his massive hand.

His mouth drops when he sees me.

All I say is, “Quail eggs? Really?”